


You Have a Mythological Beauty

by SOMETHINREAL



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Handyman! Richard, M/M, Not Famous, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Writer! Taron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 03:58:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19310161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SOMETHINREAL/pseuds/SOMETHINREAL
Summary: The person behind the door is not, in fact, a balding middle-aged man, but instead what happens to be the most insanely uncanny man on earth. He’s all strong edges and gruff-looking, but also looks like the kind of guy you bring to your parents. He is also the kind of guy that Taron would very much like to bring to his bed. Huh.(alternatively: where taron's washer breaks and he finds himself a little too into the handyman. luckily, he's not reading things wrong.)





	You Have a Mythological Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> this is kind of crack but also that photoshoot rich did make me question how much of a lesbian I actually am. I stayed up too late, procrastinated culminating projects, and out came this mess. ft my sense of humour and taron being a dumb bottom and everyone accepting him for it.
> 
> ps sophie is sophie cookson who plays Roxy in Kingsman because whenever I write a taron fic I want them to have a roxy and Eggsy dynamic ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> unbeta'd, not britpicked, either. A bit of a mess, really.

Taron is not usually the type of bloke to call up a repair person to fix something. When things break in his house, which is about a million years old, and therefore has things breaking and needing fixing more often than would be ideal, he’ll do things himself. Usually, he’ll go about searching up on YouTube how to fix it, see on Google what parts he needs to buy so that he can save the money he’d otherwise have to spend for someone to come do something he could easily do himself.

It’s not often that he’ll actually admit he needs help with something, either. He once slept on the floor for a month after moving in because he didn’t want to actually ring a mate up and say that he needed help with putting together the bloody Ikea bed that was supposed to be easy— or so the clerk had said. But then again, how easy is putting together something that comes with a wordless instruction manual?

The washing machine breaks, and Taron tries just about everything. All of the wrenches and valves and weighing the clothes on one side more than the other doesn’t help anything. No amount of YouTube videos or Google searches can help him this time. The thing still clunks and refuses to drain properly (and even sometimes sprays him in the face if it’s feeling particularly like taking the piss), so all his clothes are still proper sopping when he takes them out to dry, which means he’s gotta do a dry cycle twice, which makes his hydro bill go absolutely mental. It takes a lot for him to actually call up the repair service and just get a quote— to the point where he actually considers just buying a whole new machine. But then he realizes that he’d still have to have someone come in and install the bloody thing. It’s futile.

The repair person is coming on Tuesday at noon, so Taron takes the day off work.

He spends a majority of his time before they come cleaning up his house so he doesn’t look like he lives in a _literal_ pigsty, even though he does. Chances are the person will be a middle-aged balding man who doesn’t care about anything other than his paycheque but _still,_  Taron would like to pretend that he has his life together regardless of whether the stranger will actually give a damn about the unfinished articles and half-read books lying about.

It’s two minutes past twelve when the knocker goes and Taron is ripped from his delighted post-cleaning bliss. He scans the room once more to ensure that everything is in its proper place— or at least the place it was intended to be in when he’d first gotten it. He glances at himself in the mirror by the door; he’d taken the liberty to actually shower and make himself look somewhat presentable, because opening the door in a stained, three-day old Queen shirt and trackies worn so much they’re starting to tear in the thighs isn’t a good look for him. Or anyone.

And, shit, man.

The person behind the door is not, in fact, a balding middle-aged man, but instead what happens to be the most insanely uncanny man on earth. He’s all strong edges and gruff-looking, but also looks like the kind of guy you bring to your parents. He is also the kind of guy that Taron would very much like to bring to his bed. Huh.

“Hello,” Taron croaks. He’s not quite good at introductions or pleasantries, or, actually, he’s not very good at speaking with other people at all, especially when they look like _that_ , so he hopes they can get this over with quickly.

“Afternoon, sir.” The first thing Taron thinks is _You’re far from home._ And then _Maybe not that far. Scotland is only an eight hour drive from London. And then again, Taron is far from home, too._  

“Please, just Taron. Nice to meet you. You are?” 

“Nice to meet you as well. I’m here about the washer. I’m Richard. Rich is also fine, but please don’t call me Dick. Not just yet, at least.” Taron laughs, but otherwise doesn’t move. Richard eyes him up and down. Taron knows that it’s not a check-out, but it _feels_ like a check-out. “Are you going to let me in, or?”

Taron feels like dying already and it hasn’t even been three minutes in this man’s presence. His face flushes with embarrassment. “Sorry.” Stepping aside, he lets Richard in and leads him to the laundry room. “I’ve looked at the thing myself and obviously, I don’t have the skill set of someone who does this professionally, but no amount of YouTube videos or Reddit forums could help me out.”

Richard nods, slowly. “What did you say was wrong with it?”

“I’m not entirely sure. It clunks an awful lot and never drains properly.”

“Right,” Richard says. “I’ll take a look.” He goes to look inside, and Taron realizes what a mistake he’s made.

“Oh, fuck, wait—” but it’s too late. The washer sprays him in the face before Taron can get the words out. What a tragedy. Richard flings the thing closed and wipes his face off. He’s dripping water onto the tile. “I am _so_ sorry. It only does it when it feels like taking the piss and I honestly didn’t think— fuck, let me get you a towel.” He fishes for one in the clean laundry bin, hands it to Richard without looking.

“It’s alright. I’ve been sprayed with worse over the years.” And he probably means like, old dirty pipe water or something, but Taron can’t stop his mind from wandering, like the slag he is. He chooses this moment to look back up from where he’s crouched down and it’s a _bad_ idea. Richard’s stupid polo shirt, fit with company logo and name tag, is soaked to his skin and honestly, if Taron pinches himself and doesn’t wake up he’s going to be forced to believe that he’s wound up on the set of a porno. “Where can I access the water line?” And he does the thing again. The not-check-out.

“Erm,” Taron says, processing. “Over there, I think.” He points behind the boiler. While Richard goes to do that, Taron whips out his phone and texts the only person who comes to mind.

To: Sophie  
12:17

_Help me!! There is a hot man in my house and I don’t know what to do :(((( I feel like I’m in the middle of a porn vid_

From: Sophie  
12:18

 _Fuck him. That’s the only logical answer._  

To: Sophie  
12:18

_Nooo!!!! That is the least logical thing to do_

From: Sophie  
12:19

_I don’t know, T. Get his number?? Stop being a hopeless bottom for once???_

To: Sophie  
12:20

_RUDE_

_It’s a personality trait you know I can’t help it. And besides I’m perfectly capable of getting topped enough to balance it out. It’s just been awhile OKAY. And I don’t really want this to turn out like a shitty porn. If i get a hook up i want it to be proper yeah_

From: Sophie  
12:20

_You’re telling me you don’t want to get fucked over your newly fixed washing machine?_

To: Sophie  
12:21

 _Don’t tempt me please._  

From: Sophie  
12:21

_Really T just go for it. The worst that could happen is that you get rejected. It is your house after all, everyone knows better than to disrespect someone in their own house. And you are a pretty attractive bloke. At least get his number?_

To: Sophie  
12:21

_…_

_Fine._

_But if this fails it’s on you._

 

“Right,” Richard says, pulling Taron’s attention from his phone. He glances up and wills his body and mind to cooperate with one another for once, because this is probably one of the only times it’s going to count. “It looks like what you need is a new switch gear, and there’s some other issues that I can fix up, so if you’d like to hang out somewhere else while I do it, it’s fine. It’s not very interesting to watch.” 

Right. So Taron goes up to the living room, fiddling about for a while, flicking through channels on the telly, making himself tea, literally doing anything other than think about the man in his basement hunched over his washing machine with a water-soaked polo and stupid blue eyes. He’s got to get a grip. He’s not eighteen anymore, god, he’s almost bloody thirty years old and he should not get this worked up about fucking handyman.

 _But he’s a_ _hot_ _handyman!_ His brain is screaming at him. _A hot handyman who’s in your house and has checked you out all of two times!! Sophie is right!! Fuck him!!!_

And that’s ridiculous. No. Taron can’t do that. Right?

When Richard comes back up he’s significantly more disheveled. It’s almost more attractive than the way he was so put together before. Screw that, it’s a hundred percent better. “I’ve contacted a mate about bringing the spare part, he should be here in about—” but his phone chimes, cutting him off. He pulls it out, glances at it. “Shit,” he says. “There’s been a major accident and he won’t be here for a while. Sorry about the inconvenience.”

“It’s alright.” _Fuck_. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Oh, I thought that whole washing machine spray down there was my complimentary drink?” It takes Taron a moment to process, and it’s not that funny, but it’s dumb and Taron absolutely loves dumb, so he laughs, hard. Richard grins, and Taron actually feels like he’s dying. “I’m fine, though, thank you for offering.”

“Would you like to sit?” And he doesn’t think much about it, but he realizes he’s only got one couch, because _reasons_ , so Richard sits next to him. It’s whatever, he can be normal, for once.  

“What do you do for a living?” Richard asks him. 

“I write for a pop-news company. Like BuzzFeed but like, _better_. I work there full time.” This is nice. Casual conversation. It’s not often that Taron actually indulges in conversation with people who aren’t his mum, Colin or Sophie from work, or, embarrassingly, the barista who’s name he still forgets even though she wears a name tag.

It’s quiet for a moment. 

“Sorry again about the delay,” Richard says.

“It’s alright,” Taron replies. And he isn’t lying. He likes Richard company, even if his gaze makes him feel like he’s been set alight. “I haven’t got anything else to do today, so.” And it sounds bad, like he’s a loser, but Richard scoots closer to him on the couch. And _oh_ , he’s really close.  

“No?” he asks. “Guy like you, I thought you’d be swimming in appointments, among _other things_.”  

Taron is dying. _He is flirting with you!!!_ His brain screams, and it sounds a lot like Sophie. _No he is not_ he tells it back, and it sounds like him this time. Just because he tells himself that doesn’t mean it’s true. “Yeah, well with working full time, I don’t have much time to socialize.”

“Shame.”

“It’s not like the guys at work want anything to do with me, anyways.” It’s his way of casually mentioning to Richard, _Hey!! I’m queer!! I like blokes!! Also I’m not currently in a relationship!! Please fuck me!!_

“Their loss, really,” he says, and okay this is definitely flirting and was Richard’s face always that close to his? “What’s not to like?”

And Taron might be reading this wrong, he’s totally, probably reading this wrong. But he wants. He’s had a stressful few days, and it’s been a while since a good fuck and he probably shouldn’t be this wound up, but he is, like a teenager, so he moves his face a little closer. 

“I might be reading this wrong,” he says, vocalizing his thoughts. “I’m probably reading this wrong—”

“You’re not.”

“And it’s completely unprofessional— wait _what_?” Taron is almost never ever right about these sorts of things. “Okay.”

“I don’t normally do these sorts of things, but we do have about forty-five minutes to kill before my friend gets here.”

Okay. Alright, cool. This is good. Taron can work with this.

“Good. We should definitely make use of that time.”

Richard is kissing him, now. His mouth tastes of Altoids, his scruff scratches at Taron’s chin, and yeah, that’ll do nicely. He weaves his fingers into Richard’s stupid hair, messing it up and tugging gently so that when he falls backwards, Richard follows. It’s nice, really nice, the weight of Richard between his hips, pressing down where Taron arches up, pushing one of Taron’s legs off of the couch to press hard, more efficiently. Taron moans, because he’s _that_ wound up.

He slides his hands under the stupid utility belt, unclasps it, lets it fall to the floor with a thud.

From there, it’s kind of fuzzy. It’s an awful lot of uncoordinated clothes-shedding, with the added struggle of getting rid of Richard’s still-damp polo, and a pinch to the softness of Taron’s stomach with a _cute_ that shouldn’t make him blush but _does_ . Eventually, there’s some maneuvering, and Taron nearly falling off the couch, then a hand on his cock and Richard panting _have you got anything to make this easier?_ into his ear, and fuck if it’s not the best thing he’s ever heard. 

“Yeah,” Taron says. “Third drawer in the coffee table.” Richard leans over, and pulls it open. When he turns back around, his eyebrows are raised so high they’re nearly in his hair. Yes, Taron keeps well stocked, and no, it’s not like he does this a lot or anything, he’s just rather impatient. “Sometimes my hookups don’t make it to the bedroom alright? Why are you judging me?”

Richard narrows his eyes from above him, a smile gracing his features.“I’m not judging you, Taron. It’s just convenient, is all.” Richard looks him over. “Also,” he says, “do you want me to top or would you rather you do it?”

“Well, I’m pretty solidly a bottom, but if you would prefer—” 

“No,” Richard cuts him off. “I am pretty solidly a top, thank you, so that’s great.”

And then he’s trailing kisses down Taron’s chest lower and lower until— “ _fuck_.” Richard’s mouth is hot and wet and feels so bloody nice that Taron’s can’t help but relax into it. It’s good, really good, fucking Richard is _too fucking good_ at it that it forces Taron make the mistake of looking at him again, and he’s _not_ expecting Richard to be looking back at him.

Stupid fucking blue eyes and a fucking cheeky grin. Who the bloody fuck tries to grin with a mouth full of cock and _suceeds_? Richard No-Last-Name-Given, apparently.  

“You’re a fucking menace, you are.” But Taron’s not sure if it’s actually coherent or not through the sounds leaving his mouth. And then Richard pulls away, and Taron groans. “You _arse_. That was starting to get really good.”

Richard runs his hands up Taron’s chest, and his fingers are rough and calloused, but _he’s_ gentle. “Don’t you want to get to the good part?” And yeah, Taron would very much like that, thanks.

“How do you want me?” 

“Elbows and knees?” So he flips around for Richard, gives him a good view, an easier angle. The lube is cold where Richard squirts some onto his flushed, overheated skin, and Taron hisses at the contact. His fingers are long and rough and feel so good where they prod at his insides. He feels like he’s on fire, heat spreading from his cheeks to his toes.

Richard is on his second, and he’s about to add a third finger but Taron stops him. “It’s enough,” he says.

“You sure?”

“‘M a big boy. I can take it.” Richard takes his fingers away and flips Taron over, hands sticky with lube, and then they’re face to face and then— “ _fucking hell._ ”

The weight of him is good, nice. It’s been a while since Taron has had anybody like this, so it feels sweet, almost. _Richard_ is sweet, gentle, a contrast to where his rough fingers press to Taron’s hips, grounding him, holding him in place so when he squirms, he can’t wiggle away. The pace is just right, bordering on odd side of too deep, too good, so Taron can’t decide whether he wants to worm away or if he wants to push back onto Richard.

It’s not like Richard gives him much choice, anyway. 

He’s really, really strong. Taron’s not going to lie; he’s a pretty big dude. Not that tall, but he’s strong enough, and muscular. He could probably get out away if he wanted to, but he _doesn’t_ want to, and Richard makes it feel like he _can’t_. Taron likes that. Likes feeling like he has an element of control taken away, but not in that rough, demanding way. In the way that makes him feel safe, cared for.  

Richard’s breath is hot and makes Taron’s skin sticky and damp where he’s panting into the space where Taron’s neck meets his shoulder. It’s really, really hot and he kind of wants Richard to leave him a mark, but he knows he probably won’t. Not this time. Maybe the next, if he’s lucky enough to even get that. Taron hopes to god that there will be a next, but he can’t focus on what could happen next time when Richard takes one of his hands from Taron’s hips and wraps it around where he’s _aching_. 

He won’t last long and he knows it. He’s not sure how long they’ve been at it: it feels in equal parts like minutes and hours, but creeping up on him comes the tightness in his abdomen. Taron moans, long, drawn out, and his hips lift off the couch, into Richard’s touch and away from it at once.

“I’m gonna cum,” he warns, and then a few seconds later, he does. Richard keeps fucking into him, though, even though he’s sensitive now, making these little choked off sounds, and touching him all the while, until he lets go too, spilling into latex.

Richard’s kinda just laying on top of him until Taron wheezes a little under his weight and he finally pulls off and out. He ties the condom and wraps it in a tissue that he also finds in the convenient little drawer. Taron watches him flop back onto the couch, huffing out a great big puff of air, and then: “I could use that drink, now.”

“Me too,” Taron says. He doesn’t feel like moved from where he’s sagged, boneless in his sofa crease. It’s even an effort when Richard hands him a tissue to clean the sticky cum off of his stomach. “I think I’ve moaned myself hoarse.” He glances to the table and suddenly remembers the tea that had been left untouched for far too long. He picks it up to test it, anyways, and then gags. “Ugh, this is bloody awful. This is a disgrace to tea drinkers everywhere. I can’t even heat it up in the microwave coz’ it won’t be the same. I’m so disappointed.”

“Well,” Richard starts, “if you’re throwing on the kettle I take my tea black with a wee bit of sugar, bag in.” And then he grins. And in his post-sex haziness, Taron swears he falls for him just a little more than he already has.

So he makes them tea, and when he returns, Richard thrown his clothes back on and re-quaffed his hair so that he _almost_ looks like he hasn’t just fucked his client on their couch. Taron, however, is still in nothing but his boxers, and the shame of it only just hits him. “Sorry,” he says, “I should probably put some clothes on.” 

“I mean if it were up to me…” Richard trails off, then furrows his eyebrows and purses his stupid fucking perfect mouth. “Nope, sorry. Too soon?”

“A little creepy, but I’m into that.” Taron winks for good measure.

Richard continues: “I do enjoy what I’m looking at, really, but my colleague is going to be here in a few, according to the text I got while you were off being a good host, and I don’t really feel like explaining why you haven’t got any trousers on to him.”

It’s a good idea, so he picks up his clothes from where they sit at Richard’s feet and throws them on. Taron’s only just finished fixing his hair when the knocker goes, and both of them get up to answer it. Taron opens it, being the owner of the estate and all. Behind it is a man with his hair pulled back into a little bun. His name tag says _Kit_ on it.

Taron shuffles to the side a little, to put some space between him and Richard. Kit shoots a look in Richard’s direction, but is professional when he says, “Afternoon, sir. I’m here with the part you needed replaced.”

Taron lets him in, and Richard says, “We’re going to be down making some God awful noise and doing nothing interesting for the next twenty minutes, so unless you want to watch me with my head in your washer, you should probably stay upstairs.”

And Taron wants really badly to make a cheeky comment about how he wouldn’t mind the view, but he’s trying to not make it obvious that they’ve just been shagging and he’s already kind of limping, so he just shrugs, and says, “Alright.”

He watches them leave, and when they think he’s out of earshot, Taron hears Kit say, _Are you fucking serious, Rich?_ , and Richard responds _Sorry, mate._ Taron snorts. So much for their cover.

They come back up after a while, and Taron’s just sitting on the sofa and drinking his tea, which has luckily not had the chance to get cold. He walks towards them, and Richard makes a face at Kit, so he rolls his eyes and tells them he’s going to go for a ciggy. When he leaves, Richard leans down, says, “he doesn’t even smoke,” and Taron laughs. 

“So,” Taron says. “It’s all fixed?” He’s skirting around the topic and he knows it, but he doesn’t want to be the one to address the elephant in the room.

“No more clunking, and it shouldn’t spray anyone in the face, either.” The novelty of it has worn off between them, so it’s kind of awkward now. There’s a long stretch of silence between them. “Look,” Richard says eventually. “Am I wrong to assume that there was a thing? Besides the obvious, you know.”

“There was a thing,” Taron agrees.

“Good. Erm. I’d like to take you out for dinner, if that’s alright. Do this properly. And maybe use a bed next time, if there is a next time.” It’s nice to see him fumble a little, Taron thinks.

“I would like there to be a next time,” Taron tells him, and it’s true. He very much would like a next time where they aren’t as frantic and he can actually enjoy things, properly. He’d like to be able to take his time.

They stare for a moment, at each other, and it’s very movie-esque, despite the fact that their coupling was anything but. A voice comes from the door they’re hovering by.

“Rich, I’m trying to be a mate here, but we _do_ have other things to do today."

Taron’s face prickles with heat, and he leans up to kiss Richard gently on the mouth. “Have you got a pen in that utility belt or is it just handyman tools?”

“ _Handyman tools_?” Richard asks incredulously. He pulls out a ballpoint pen and hands it to Taron. “I will have you know that my utility belt has many practical things in it too.”

“Uh-huh,” Taron says, scribbling his number on the back of the cheque. “Call me. Set up that date.”

Richard grins, takes it from him. “Will do.” 

The door closes, and Taron feels warm, hopeful.


End file.
